Returning to Heart's Ambitions
by Morning Dew
Summary: One Shot. Jack endlessly hid behind the fascia of his post-strike glory, basking in feigned gallantry and valor. But one young actress accustomed to disguises would see right through him, and teach him to return to his heart's ambitions.


DISCLAIMER: I don't own Jack Kelly, nor do I own miss Stagey. I am applying for ownership of Spot Conlon, and well...Dewey belongs to me of course.

A.N: Well this story has been a while in the making, as Stagey can tell you. I had it almost done when my computer decided, for some reason, to erase all the files on my CD. And thus I had to start from scratch. So hopefully this will be better than my other story would've been. Hopefully.

_**Returning to Heart's Ambitions **_

Sarah's laugh was more irritating than usual the night the Jacobs family invited me over their small would-be apartment for a minor celebration commending the father's return to work. I'd no longer the ability to recollect why I daily dealt with their all-is-well facade and failing traditions of a five-unit fellowship working collaboratively to send each child through schooling, and thus my desire to detach from the 'show' was becoming more and more blatant to me with each passing hour. Spot always did inquire as to how I could possibly associate myself with a mindless puppet like Sarah, how I could stand to be content with a young woman who obliged everyone without argument and obediently followed through with all of society's dictates.

_You need a wild mare_, he'd tell me again and again. _You need someone worth forgetting Santa Fe for, someone who'll keep you on your feet like none other_.

But then again, Spot Conlon was used to embracing dolls with fiery rebellion. He lived to acquaint himself with those coquettes who'd slap you in the face for any good reason, the ones who barked at you like your mother but loved on you like your whore. Harsh to say, I know, but it's the Brooklyn leader's very own philosophy on relationships, and I suppose that's why he's only the ability to court his girlfriend once a week. Their moods toward each other are always contrary.

_Forget me for one minute, _he'd then tell me, whenever I pulled the shortcomings of his dealings with women into the equation. _You're the one stuck with the pristine easy-pleaser. Use her and get it done with already, Jacky boy! _

I'm not quite sure what was keeping me from fulfilling those very aspirations. The day the strike was over, I liked to tell myself she was one of the reasons I came back, that the sun was indeed the same in any state, and that even should it stop shinning one confounded morning, being with her was enough to make me feel complete. But it wasn't so; I'd been lying to myself for ages since. After that single heated kiss, everything thereafter was bland and heartless. I think the only reason I bothered with the damsel once Manhattan was deemed my home permanently was for David and Les, and the kindness of the Jacobs' parents.

David was a close companion of mine since day one, and I couldn't bring myself to pain his sister and thus lose his friendship. And Les; that boy reverenced me as if I were his god. Who was I to tarnish such visions and show myself to be no more than a shallow undedicated then seventeen-year old looking for someone with whom I was simply compatible?

_Sarah's so excited about the three month anniversary, _David said to me on the respective day while we were selling papers at Central Park. _She's even bought a new dress and everything! It's nice to see her happy like this. _

I assumed he knew nothing of my depression all the while, or that he simply didn't care whether or not I was likewise as pleased with the relationship as his sister. Oh the many times I wanted to pull him aside during a show at Irving Hall and screech to him regarding my abhorrence of his sister and my every intention to break off the relationship by evening! Oh the many times I wanted to shove her giggling face away from my memories and move on with my destitute life while she dallied forth with middle class languor! But each occasion I was held back by my devotion to her brothers, and each occasion I heaved an inner sigh and dreaded the recording of yet another day with her.

There was one ultimate reason, though, that I enslaved myself to Sarah's bidding. I did it to hurt the one girl who had ever managed to expose me for the dubious fraud I was. Her name was Belle Malone, but we in the paper peddling world called her Stagey (the name didn't suit her shy and reserved nature, of course, but it did emphasize her future dreams of acquiring vaudeville stardom one fortunate day). She'd been trying to make a living out of her impoverished status since the age of nine – which marked the demise of her mother – but hadn't sought accommodations at the newsgirls lodging house across from my tenement until the age of eighteen. She didn't speak much those first few days; simply kept to herself and labored for those few precious cents we newsies always like to accumulate by noon.

Her hair tumbled past her shoulders in thick coffee-tinted tresses as soft as silk, framing her well pronounced face, making its sculpting seem of that much more prestige. At first glance, if you ignored the raggedy skirt and blouse, she could've been the daughter of any prominent figure in the aristocracy. She had a beauty that exceeded normalcy; her face long and proud, her lips inviting but at the same time coy. They always curled up in a smile somewhat warily, as if she wasn't necessarily sure your banter was humorous or not. Though of average height, the depth of her dark eyes increased her stature, as if boldly declaring to the world who she was and why it mattered.

I always did love the way her grey derby hat cast shadows upon that lovely face whenever she was immersed in the worlds of the books she nightly read. It was like a whimsy veil pulled over the features of a princess, hiding her from the drudgeries and pains of reality. She seemed oblivious to these realities, though, as was apparent in how often she consumed her fiction and how numerous were the times the literary works made her smile or laugh or sigh in want. Sometimes I overheard the sweet melody of a hum escape her lips, no doubt a limerick about love and the protagonists who fought for such. Other times, lost in a daydream, she'd recite whole passages from memory as she sat upon a Central Pak fountain or bench, addressing an unseen individual with preciseness that supported her potential success in acting.

I didn't know much about her, though, only what I observed. And even the girl who was in charge of Stagey's lodging house didn't know a wagonload's worth either! It was as if Miss Malone was a mysterious apparition of my very imagination, which I scarcely believed considering the logistics of the matter, but still.

_She just goes out and comes back in every day_, Dewey told me with a curt nod. _Doesn't speak to any of the other girls, doesn't act like she's one of us. She's always readin' those books. Wants to be an actress or somethin'. _

Dewey was the friendliest doll you'd meet within Manhattan and Brooklyn combined; she'd been demoted to the lower class after a dispute with her twin brother, and with her own higher education funds had established a lodging house for girls wishing to pursue the art of headline hawking. But even she had been hardened by the injustice of New York, and even her eyes had been opened when flimsy ideologies of a crime-free world were instantly shattered in the back alleys of our misbegotten city. It didn't help that she was dating Spot on and off; he'd a tendency to let his pessimism rub off on even the purest of saints.

_So ya never talk to her? _I asked, disbelieving none had entertained discourse with the girl who'd captured my eye.

Dewey pursed her lips and averted her eyes upward as if to fully contemplate the question. _Nope_, she said at last, only after a half second deliberation. _Why are ya so worry 'bout it, Jack? Spot's been talkin' nonstop 'bout how ya want to know every possible thing ya can concernin' Stagey. She aint even ya type. _

Man, Spot and his girl sometimes saw too clearly through me. With the same hardened glare, they could discern my fraudulent nature, knew within seconds I was nothing like the gallant gents I tried to emulate day in and day out with excessive charm and valor. They knew of my double life. How I was the brave and intrepid soul who had led the 1898 Strike, was approachable by any child and gentler than God himself. How at night I exhibited anything but those affable attributes; I was an alcoholic who smoked one too many cigarettes and bedded one too many Irving Hall performers. The embodiment of good and evil existent within the same young man.

_Look, what would youse know 'bout anyone bein' my type? _

But I knew she was more factual than a journal of science. Stagey wasn't anything like the girls I'd dated in my past. She was brimming with success, a happy-go-lucky damsel who deserved to be well off in this life. Well at least it's what I deduced from observation. Around me, she was nothing of the sort. Either she was coy, or I acted nothing like how I wished to be, for I held back constantly and feared more than anything being exposed by her. She seemed to possess the eyes of a sentinel, of a mythical creature who could stare into my heart and know my true intentions.

I finally met her through Dewey at a party Spot was hosting in the Brooklyn lodging house; such a madhouse the place was, but the moment I saw her...the moment my eyes fell upon her serene figure, everything grew silent around me. What was it about this girl that made me feel as if my reputation was threatened and dangling by shredded yarn?

_Get a hold of yaself, Jack. Ya drool is gettin' all over the poker table! _Spot, for the life of him, couldn't understand why I was ogling the sweet face with such intensity, but he did appreciate the fact that it took my mind off Sarah, for he wasn't the wildest of her fans. With an arm draped over an unenthused Dewey's shoulders, he looked at me with a lopsided grin and sneered. _Well, just so ya know anyhow, we'se arranged a lil' meetin' for youse and ya lil' Stagey there. _

And so they had. Stagey and I met that night. Apparently, she'd been eager to become acquainted with the one who'd led dozens upon dozens of newsboys to their victory against a tyrant. The reasoning was tiresome, but I took advantage of the opportunity nonetheless. As Spot would, I treated her indifferently, as if I could very well do without her support. My replies to her inquiries were bland, and I showed no interest whatsoever in her offered companionship. I saw how my callous behavior caused her zeal to wane; almost mourned her lost of cheer, but held my own if only to garner approval from my Brooklyn comrade.

My scorn, however, proved to not drive her away. From the day onward, we talked more whenever catching the other's eye at the distribution office, even did so much as sell together if only to exchange a few words here and there. I, for one, continued my charade of being not drawn to her in the least, but little by little she somehow caused my fascia to crumble into shards. She made me feel naked sometimes, as if all my mistakes and failures were open for her ridicule. I felt as if I could hide nothing from her, for she already knew more about me than I would ever care to share.

It wasn't long until we were closer than siblings. To me she poured her feelings on every imaginable subject, from her indignation for the prejudices against the Irish immigrants to her dislike for Tibby's roast beef. She told me about how, to her, her mother had been like a guardian angel, how she was ever grateful to the woman for bringing her from the slums of Ireland to the 'land of opportunity'. She shared with me her dreams and hopes for a better world, her wishes to obtain fame on the stage, and her desires to have a comfortable living one day with the one she loved.

It was more than obvious she maintained a raging crush on me. Dewey told me as much, said the girl would scribble mindlessly in her journal and end up inscribing the initials 'J.K' within a heart. I wasn't quite sure what this called me to do, whether I should encourage it by leading her on (as was Spot's theory, going to the point in which he'd go as far as he wanted and then ditch the dame), or whether I should confess to her up front that I was already dating another and that I'd no wish to end that relationship for her. The problem was, Sarah really _didn't _mean that much to me, and Stagey's brilliant personality gave me reason enough to forget about her.

I took her under my wing because I saw in her a filter of peace when all others had submitted to the madness around them. I let her draw close to me because I saw in her the heart of a child when all others harbored hearts shattered with letdown's and poverty. She made me laugh on the inside, made me smile when no one was looking. She made me actually for once want to tear up my Santa Fe pamphlets and focus on the magic right here in front of me, in my very own borough. Even though she peeled away my disguises layer by layer and showed me who I really was no matter how much it scared me, I was thankful for it.

Spot's incessant coaching was ever sounding in my ears, though.

_Ya goin' soft, Jack. Ya make it so easy for a girl to get ya. Ya know how long it took Dewey and me to get together? _He took a moment to calculate, as if he himself couldn't even remember. _It took eight months. Eight! _

I looked at him as if he were the incarnation of idiocy. _Spot_, I had told him in all honesty, _you and Dewey practically hate each other! _

He told me that was beside the point. So, as always, I took him at his word and started to hurt Stagey in whatever ways I could. Knowing how jealous she'd be, I began to tell her about my conquests over the female gender, delving into details whenever explaining the stories of my past girlfriends and the pleasures they'd given me. Sometimes, seeing the pained look in those almond eyes, seeing the wish to crawl up on her bed and cry when the words filled her ears...sometimes it made me want to stop and hold her closer, and whisper to her that I'd given up such nonsense long ago. But I proceeded.

It wasn't long until I started to share the specifics about Sarah as well. Every time I had a date with Miss Jacobs, I ran back to the girls lodging house afterward and told Stagey everything from the hello's to the farewell kisses. She nodded and smiled slightly, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that she no longer wished to be the best friend to whom I spilled about my love life. It was hurting her more than ever. And when I sat down at last one night to think upon it myself, I realized it was hurting me too!

Sarah's laugh was more irritating than usual the night the Jacobs family invited me over their small would-be apartment for a minor celebration commending the father's return to work. I'd no longer the ability to recollect why I daily dealt with their all-is-well facade and failing traditions of a five-unit fellowship working collaboratively to send each child through schooling, and thus my desire to detach from the 'show' was becoming more and more blatant to me with each passing hour. Spot always did inquire as to how I could possibly associate myself with a mindless puppet like Sarah, how I could stand to be content with a young woman who obliged everyone without argument and obediently followed through with all of society's dictates.

I sat in my respectful chair, tapping my silverware against the empty plate, trying to create a beat to which I could bob my head and save myself from this oppressing boredom. Les was talking my ears off about how he had managed to sell thirty papers that afternoon, and David was busily etching out his English paper for class due the next day. Though I wasn't paying her the time of day, I could feel Sarah staring at me with that fake smile of hers, her mind no doubt playing out the kiss I'd give her before leaving to my hell house of a home. For once, it grossed me out more than usual. I just couldn't stand it any longer! I couldn't stand the sound of Mrs. Esther washing those dishes under the warm running water the family took for granted; I couldn't stand the ambient of utter hostility, nor could I bear the sight of the paintings and numerous books along the shelves. I had to get out!

"Sorry Sarah," I mumbled in a rush, "I forgot there's something important I had to do tonight." I sped out of that apartment and down the fire escape in a flash. I had to tell Stagey, I had to tell her how I felt. I had to tell her how much she meant to me and how I simply couldn't stand another day knowing the pain I daily caused her.

I found her on the roof of her lodging house that evening. She was sitting all pristine like, counting the stars and giving them names as if she'd given birth to them. The moon's silver glow upon her face made her look the part of a goddess, and I honestly had to swallow back fear, because for the first time in my life I was honestly afraid of courting a girl.

"Stagey?"

She looked up at me sadly and managed a smile. "Hey, Jack. How was your date?" She wrapped her arms around her legs, drawing her knees to her chest like a child. Of course she didn't care anything for my night with Sarah, but at least she attempted to further the friendship somehow.

"I need to talk to youse," was all I said, as I took a seat beside her and then heaved a long held sigh, a sigh I'd probably been holding for years.

"Is something wrong?" She looked so concerned too. It was as if, no matter how much I'd hurt her these past few weeks, one word of sorrow on my behalf would lead her to console me and let me know all would be well.

"Stagey, ya my best friend, ya know that. Even more so my best friend than Spot sometimes. Ya..." I paused to think, at a loss for words. "Ya see me for all the good I am, and accept the bad...and love me for it nonetheless. And this whole while I've been takin' for granted ya feelings for me...and never realizing how rare and precious a thing like ya love is. And I'm sorry, and I was wonderin' if maybe we could start over. I was wonderin' if..."

I never thought she was the type to interrupt others when they were speaking. I was so sure she'd be won over by my speech and moved to tears. I was so sure she'd throw her arms around me and pin me to the ground, telling me how much she loved me and how long she'd been waiting to hear those words. But sometimes, life doesn't work out the way you want.

She, instead, stopped my flow of words with the most earth-shattering kiss I'd ever known in all my years of existence.

We spent the rest of the night wrapped in each other's arms.


End file.
